There are no poems in me today. The weary world is calling, "sleep," and I, having followed the lure, found only a siren too tired to keep me. There are no poems in me afterward. When after wondering what this feeling this, I never quite complete the thought, and lose the sense of why it was I ever felt it in the first place. There were no poems in me then. Because what I wrote was hardly more than words. When you try too hard to force meaning from desire, a certain poverty overcomes you, which you promise to recover some future day only to marvel at how distant the "future" stays. Finally, I haven't a poem for you today. Only these words that search always, and remind me to think, and keep me safe, when the arms of the weary world surround me.